


Christmas Kiss

by suchanadorer



Series: Hamish Watson-Holmes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 22:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/suchanadorer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Hamish sneaks downstairs to watch John and Sherlock wrap presents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> [Valeria](http://valeria2067.tumblr.com)
> 
> requested fic of Hamish catching his parents kissing. This fell out. If you want to know more about Hamish, [he has his own blog](http://hamish-watson-holmes.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr.

”Ssh, you’ll wake him!”

“John, the boy has clearly gotten his sleeping habits from you. He could sleep through, through-“

“An RPG being fired through the front door of the flat?”

“Quite right. So stop fretting about the music. Are you sitting on the tape?”

Father’s low chuckle mixes with the unmistakable sound of a wine glass being refilled as I settle down on the fifth step from the bottom, blanket around my shoulders, and my stuffed bear; Boswell, in my arms. Father has always insisted that there’s no logic in filling my head with fairy tales about Father Christmas, but Dad still wants to surprise me on Christmas morning, so every Christmas Eve they stay up late and wrap all my presents, piling them under the tree for me to find the next day. I am nine years old, and this is the fourth year I have crept downstairs to watch their ritual.

Christmas is Dad’s favourite time of year. He loves the coziness of it, the joy in a well-decorated tree, the way lights twinkle in the snow. We go to every Christmas market he can find, drink mulled wine (Dad frowns; Father says it’s a special occasion) and make snow angels, weather permitting. From the first week of December there is not a moment without music in our flat, which seems to shrink upon the arrival of the huge conifer that stands in the space between the fireplace and the window. I can see it now, glittering, every bit of tinsel and colourful ornament carefully placed, even the ones I made years ago in school. It’s reflected in the mirror above the fireplace, sending sparkling lights out over the whole flat.

Father, well, he loves watching Dad at Christmas. He stands on the side while we ice skate, but his eyes never leave us. He knows which carols he loves most (Hark the Herald Angels Sing and O Holy Night), and he’s always there, without a word, at the exact moment the star needs to be put on the tree.

Then there’s this. Dad’s in striped pyjama pants and an old grey t-shirt; the Santa hat has been removed from the skull and is now adorning his head. He’s kneeling, his bare feet sticking out behind him as he stretches after a roll of wrapping paper. Father is standing, his dressing gown swirling around him as walks in small, agitated circles through the chaos they’ve created on the floor of the sitting room. There are bags and boxes on every surface, and crumpled bits of coloured paper have come as far out as the hallway.

“John, are you absolutely sure you’re not sitting on the tape? You had it last.” I duck my head, giggling into Boswell’s ear. I can see the tape behind Dad’s feet, but saying anything would get me sent straight to bed, so I wait.

Dad pushes himself to his feet and turns in a slow circle, shuffling through paper and ribbons with his foot. He spots the tape (but not me) and bends to pick it up. His eyes flick up and a warm smile lights up his face. “Found it.”

“Good, bring it here, I’ve got this one all folded.” Father is talking around a bright red reindeer cookie. It hangs from between his lips, flapping up and down while he speaks, stretching an arm out behind him. He’s not looking, just waggling his fingers impatiently as he tries to keep the paper from opening up around the box again.

“Come get it.” Dad puts his hands behind his back, settles his weight a little, waiting for Father to lose patience, as he always does. Father’s shoulders slump and Dad’s grin widens; he knows he’s won. Father sets the cookie down on the box and crosses the room in two long strides, crowding in on Dad, sliding his hands around his waist to try to get at the tape.

Dad clears his throat and juts his chin out, rolling his eyes up towards the ceiling. Father stills, sighing, and follows his gaze. A spring of mistletoe, bound with a red ribbon, dangles from the doorframe.

“Ah. I see.” Father looks down at him with the same warm expression he wears when he thinks Dad doesn’t see him watching. “Merry Christmas, John.” He tightens his arms around him.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.” Dad lifts himself up onto his toes, wrapping his arms around Father’s neck. They share a simple kiss, but it lingers, Father rubbing slow circles on Dad’s back while Dad’s fingers play through Father’s curls. Father’s hand slips lower and Dad smiles against his mouth.

My eyelids are drooping. The crackling fire has made it warm in the flat, and the smell of the tree and the spices from the wine make the air feel heavy. I rest my head against the wall, only for a moment. There are still three boxes whose contents I have yet to deduce… just close my eyes for a brief…

“John, look.”

“Sleep through anything, you said? D’you think he’s seen us?”

“No matter. I can carry him up this time. You don’t think he heard the puppy, do you?”

.

_Did he say puppy?_


End file.
